


The Problem of the Eviscerated Spy

by EbonyKnight



Series: The Adventures of Greg and Sherlock [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9184927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Greg's team are investigating a brutal murder and interference from MI5 leaves him angry. Sherlock does a remarkably good job of making him forget all about it.Very, very loosely based on The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle. Kind of a case of 'squint and you'll miss it'.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or anything associated. 
> 
> This story follows Greg Lestrade's Northern Adventure and will make more sense if you have read that. 
> 
> Very, very loosely based on The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle. Kind of a case of 'squint and you'll miss it'.
> 
> Beta'd by my dear friend RomanyWalker. Any remaining errors are all my own.
> 
> Feedback is very welcome :)

As soon as Greg entered the abandoned house he was assaulted by the smell of decaying, rotten flesh. He pulled an Olbas Oil speckled tissue from his pocket, grateful for Donovan’s forewarning, and held it against his nose, though it did little to mask the stench. 

As was the case with a lot of old houses, it had been divided into bedsits at some point in the past and had fallen into disrepair and abandonment in the years since. The floorboards of the living room were bare except for the old splashes of paint from past spells of redecoration, and damp patches were visible where the walls met the ceiling and under the window, leaving the cheap magnolia paint flaking away. 

“Jesus,” Greg said, aghast, at the sight of the victim laid out in the centre of the room, suddenly understanding why half of his team were combing the hallway and the scrap of garden for prints and marks, rather than working in the room with the body. From the smell and mottling of her skin it was obvious that she had been dead for a while, but it was the apparent violence of her death that caught his attention: the poor woman had been eviscerated. She was lying in a pool of blood, which had had time to coagulate, had been cut cleanly open from immediately under her breasts to the bottom most point of her abdomen, and her innards were hanging grotesquely outside of her body. 

“We’ve combed the room for evidence but nothing so far,” Donovan said, voice muffled by the hand that covered her nose and mouth. 

Greg cast a sharp look at her and batted a fly away from his face. “There’s a woman lying in a pool of blood with her guts hanging out; how can there be no evidence?”

“I don’t know how, but we’re finding nothing,” she replied, holding her own against his surliness. “There was nothing on the floor, we’ve found no prints, tracks, nothing.”

“Right. Have forensics been in?”

“They’re on their way. I’ve got two constables knocking on doors, but they’re not having much luck.”

“They won’t have,” Greg said after a moment’s thought. “It’s very transient around here. People move in for work and then move on; they don’t really get to know each other or mingle.”

“I hadn’t thought of that." 

“Come on; outside,” Greg said, jerking his head in the direction of the door. 

It was with great relief that they stepped out of the house and Greg took several deep breaths, relishing the crisp, fresh air. The stench inside was such that the smell was lingering, and he suspected that it would do so for a while. “Has anyone taken photos yet?” 

“Yes. We’ve got photos of the room, hall, and front garden so far.”

“Right. I’m going for a look around upstairs. I want someone taking photos of the whole house, inside and out.”

“I’ll get someone on it,” Donovan replied, already moving out into the yard where two of their team were scouring the ground for apparently non-existent clues. 

Greg took a deep breath and walked back into the house. He bypassed the front room, making straight for the stairs, eyes scanning for anything of interest. Considering the condition of the house, he would have expected the floors to be covered in dust, or debris from squatters, but as Donovan had said, there was nothing. The rooms on the first floor were as barren as those downstairs, and the attic was similarly bare. Throughout the house, any door that could be was locked, and many of the windows had been painted shut. He looked out of the grimy window of the front first floor room and noted that there were only two houses that would have had a direct line of sight to the house, and both appeared to be uninhabited. 

Back downstairs and outside he called for Whittard, a young but very capable detective constable. “You and McMurdo are door knocking, right?” 

“Yes, sir,” she replied, tucking errant strands of blonde hair behind her ear. “Not having much luck, though. Gonna have to come back with a couple of interpreters, I think, because most of the ones actually in speak Polish with only broken English. They’re friendly enough, though, and don’t seem to be against talking to us.”

“Right,” Greg said with a sigh. “I’ll see if I can get Kowalski from Arson sent over. Have you had any joy with those two houses?” he asked, pointing across the street. 

Whittard shook her head. “No answer from either. I think twenty six is vacant, though, because I could see a load of post on the floor through the letterbox.”

“Tell McMurdo that you’re to make note of the houses that need an interpreter and knock the rest of this street and the one that overlooks the back garden of this house. Let me or Donovan know immediately if there’s anything suspicious.”

“Righto, sir,” Whittard replied with a jaunty salute and headed down the street towards Jack McMurdo. 

As Greg turned back towards the house he caught sight of the forensics vans being let through the cordon at the end of the street. 

“Anderson,” he said in greeting as the forensics lead climbed out of the first van. He was glad the other man had recovered from his breakdown enough that he'd been able to return to work, for as surly as he could be he was the best forensics had. “Hope you haven’t got anyone with a weak stomach with you; it’s a bit of a bloodbath in there and it fucking stinks.”

“Don’t worry about us. I hope your lot haven’t been contaminating my evidence again, Lestrade,” Anderson replied, a slight awkwardness lingering in the air between them. 

“Not likely; Mustafa still twitches when she hears your name after that dressing down you gave them last month.”

Anderson chuckled, patently proud. “Well, we’d best get on with it. Can you keep your lot out until we’re done?”

“Sure. Are they okay investigating outside, or do you want them away from the house completely?”

“They’re all right in the garden, but keep them out of the house.”

“Will do. You might want to cover your nose, by the way.”

Once Anderson and his minions were inside Greg called the few staff able to tolerate the smell out of the house and directed them to join Whittard and McMurdo canvassing the street. 

“So what do you make of it?” Donovan asked, sidling up to Greg and looking very relieved to be out in the fresh air.

Greg hesitated, censoring his answer, for his ideas were not yet fully formed. “Not sure, but I reckon it was a professional job. Too clean to be anything else. What’re your thoughts?”

“Same. No evidence of violence on her or evidence of a struggle. Other than the fact that she’s been gutted, I mean.”

Greg snorted. “Yeah, there is that. I’m gonna call Gregson and see if I can get Kowalski sent over; he’s the only Polish copper I know and I don’t fancy waiting for two weeks for Language Solutions to process the request for an interpreter. Can you go back in and see if Anderson’s lot have got anything yet?”

By the time he had successfully struck a deal for Kowalski to be loaned to his team, a fine mist had started to fall, and the temperature fell with it. Despite the rancid smell, Greg decided to take his chances inside the house. Donovan was standing at the door to the living room watching the forensics officers do their work with a thoughtful look on her face. “Something’s not right about this,” she said, eyebrows drawn together in thought. 

“You mean beside the disembowelled woman in there?” Greg asked wryly, unable to stop his eyes from straying to the body of the woman, dark blonde hair spread around her head like a halo and her intestines pooled grossly across her abdomen. 

Donovan glared at him but he could see a smirk lurking around her lips. “Yes, besides that. Don’t you think it’s odd that the house is obviously abandoned but it’s so clean? Not even dust, for heaven’s sake! McMurdo rang about five minutes ago and said they’ve come across two empty houses, both of them taken over by squatters; bit odd that this house is abandoned but hasn’t been taken over in the same way, don’t you think?”

Greg nodded, for Donovan was echoing his own concerns. “Let’s see what Anderson has to say first, but you’re not wrong.”

Before she could reply there was a commotion out in the street, and Greg could hear DC Marvin raising his voice. “This is a crime scene, sir, you can’t come in!”

“Of course I can: I was invited,” came the distinctive voice of Sherlock Holmes, and Greg made for the open front door, surprised to see his partner pushing his way past the young officer, with John hot on his heels. “An eviscerated woman, Lestrade? Should I be hurt that you didn't call me yourself?” he asked, striding purposefully past Greg, coat flaring dramatically, into the room containing the body. 

“Who called him in?” Greg demanded, spinning to address Donovan, but she was looking as confused as he felt. 

“That would have been me,” Anderson said, stepping out of the room and removing his facemask. “When I got the call I thought it sounded like he’d enjoy it.”

Greg bit his tongue, refraining from snapping at Anderson; the other man hadn't been back at work long, and Greg was well aware how fragile a person’s mental health could be after such a prolonged period of illness. “Run it past me if you feel the need to call a consultant in in the future, yeah?”

Anderson looked somewhat excited rather than being abashed. “Of course. Now, can we see what he’s got to say about this?”

The three of them moved towards the door just in time to hear an exasperated John Watson shout, “Don’t lick it, you idiot!” 

“What the heck?” Greg muttered to himself, pushing past Donovan and Anderson to get into the room. He'd seen some things in his years on the force, especially since his association with Sherlock, but finding the other man flat on his front upon the floor, face scant millimetres away from the pool of coagulated blood, was something new. John, for his part, was standing to one side glaring at Sherlock as the taller man pulled out his retractable magnifying lens and examined the blood in minute detail. 

“I wasn’t going to _lick it_ , John,” Sherlock replied petulantly from his position on the floor.

“Bloody looked like it to me!” 

Anderson shouldered his way past Greg and moved to stand with one of his technicians. “So, what do you think, Sherlock?” he asked eagerly.

The consulting detective sprang up from the floor and tucked his lens into the left pocket of his tight trousers. Only a valiant effort on Greg’s part kept his eyes from straying to his partner’s long legs as the other man began to pace the room with deliberate strides, designer-shod feet barely missing the pooled blood surrounding the victim. 

“I think you’ve been holding out on me,” Sherlock replied, eyes fixed on Greg. “An evisceration is always worth a trip out.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Well?”

“This case certainly presents some features of interest,” Sherlock replied and turned sharply on his heel, striding out of the room and out into the hall, John following in his wake. 

Greg looked at John and the other man shrugged apologetically. “Good to see you, Greg,” he said as he passed and followed Sherlock into the bare kitchen. 

Deciding to let Sherlock get on with it, Greg went out into the street to check on the progress his officers were having with their canvassing. He'd just received a rather negative update from Whittard when he saw Kowalski pull up down the road. He beckoned the other man over and greeted him with a weary smile. “Thanks for coming over, Stan. We’re in here. I’ll show you the scene and then you’ll join the others canvassing. I know Whittard's got a list of houses with Polish speakers we could really do with talking to.”

“Sure thing, Lestrade,” the sergeant replied in slightly accented English, following Greg into the house. 

“It stinks, and watch your feet in here,” Greg said, leading Kowalski into the living room where two forensic technicians were taking samples and dusting for prints. Repeated exposure to the sight of the eviscerated woman and the stench did nothing to lessen the shock of either, and Greg knew he would be heading straight for the showers when they got back to the station. “We’ve no name for her, but best guess is that she’s about forty and not from around here,” he said, indicating to the body. “We need to know if anyone has seen someone matching her description in the area before, if they’ve seen anything at all suspicious, and if they know anything about the people who have lived here.”

Kowalski nodded and it was obvious to Greg that the younger officer was doing his damnedest to appear unaffected by the brutality of the killing. “I’ll get right onto it,” he said, making his exit as quickly as he could. 

“Where’s Anderson?” Greg asked the technician closest to him. 

“He said something about going to talk to Sherlock, sir."

“Thanks.” Greg swept out of the room and up the stairs to where he could hear voices. “So, what do you think?” he asked once he reached the back bedroom where Sherlock, John, Anderson, and Donovan were congregated around the window overlooking the back alley.

“A professional job, obviously,” Sherlock replied, turning to look at Greg, and slipped his phone into his pocket. His eyes were bright, and Greg was glad to see him so lively, even if it did take a brutal murder to cause it. “The house is clean, too clean, for it to be anything else. I’d go as far as to say that the assassin was looking for something, and knew exactly where to find it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Anderson asked, brow furrowed with thought. 

“Of course I am,” Sherlock snapped, turning to glare at Anderson. “It is obvious that she was dead before she was eviscerated. Her bowels would not be splayed across her abdomen in that way if that was merely the method of killing, and there would be more distinct blood spray.”

“Right, right, of course,” Anderson replied, backing away slightly. 

Sherlock looked at Greg, eyes warming despite his cold demeanour. “I should expect that you’ll be called off this case before too much longer, Lestrade.”

“I reckon you’re right about that,” Greg replied, frustrated. He had suspected that it was a professional job upon seeing the poor woman’s guts hanging out of her body; he’d only seen the like of it once before, back when he was a detective sergeant and they had been called out on a case involving a man who had been disembowelled so that the killer could get at a safety deposit box key he'd swallowed. If he was right, MI5 would likely be swooping in soon to take over; it was very unlikely that a professional hit of this nature would be arranged on an everyday member of the public, or even one of the mainstream criminal class. “Donovan, go out and get an update from Whittard or McMurdo,” he said absently, thinking that they’d get as much information as possible before they were pulled out. 

“Right,” she said, sounding as disgruntled as he felt.

“I’ll go and update my people, Lestrade,” Anderson said, stepping past Greg on his way out of the room.

There was silence for a long moment, until John cleared his throat awkwardly. “Do you want me to leave you two alone?” he asked, sounding more amused than Greg thought was strictly necessary. 

Sherlock huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, John; giggling at a crime scene is one thing, but sex is a bit much, even for me.” 

The shrill ring of Greg’s mobile cut the conversation short and he pulled it out of his pocket, unsurprised to find his DCI’s name on the display. “Good morning, sir.”

“I’ve just had Thames House on the phone, Lestrade,” his boss said, getting straight to the point. Greg could hear the anger in his voice and knew exactly what was coming. “Get your people out and prepare to hand over to the team of spooks that’s headed your way. I want a full de-brief at three.”

The line went dead before Greg could reply and he thrust the phone back into his pocket, a tension headache forming behind his eyes. “Can you come by Scotland Yard after lunch and give a statement? I know we’ve not exactly done much but new regs demand official statements from anyone involved in the case.”

“Expect us at two thirty,” Sherlock said imperiously and swept out of the room with John at his heels. 

***

By the time he had cleared his team out and handed over to the spooks it was almost time for Sherlock and John to arrive, so Greg skipped lunch in favour of a shower and change of clothes. Feeling somewhat refreshed, he settled at his desk to make a start on the mountain of paperwork such a case generated. Until the reports from his team started arriving there was a limit to what he could get done but he had found, through long years of painful experience, that getting ahead of the deluge whilst he could was the only way to ensure that he did not end up buried.

As he was typing up the chronology of known events, a niggling thought, based on half of an overheard conversation, that had been plaguing Greg since he had handed over to MI5 solidified in his mind and he found himself cursing into the silent room. He pulled out his phone and dialled Sherlock’s number, but the call went straight to voicemail. He put his phone down with a frustrated sigh and returned to his paperwork, which seemed more pointless than ever when he knew there would be no prosecution at the end of it. 

At precisely two thirty his office door banged open and Sherlock swooped in like a bird of prey with John by his side. Greg looked up from his screen, eyes drinking in the sight of the younger man; angry as he was, Sherlock was still bloody gorgeous. He'd changed since they had parted ways that morning, presumably because of the way the smell from the crime scene clung, and was now dressed in another pair of tight black trousers paired with a dark green shirt. His long black coat was draped over his left arm, and he hung it on the back of one the visitor chairs before sitting down. 

“Don’t suppose this murder had anything to do with a spy Mycroft wanted you to follow with a pooper scoop, did it?” Greg asked, staring intently at Sherlock. 

A look of surprise briefly crossed Sherlock’s face before an impassive mask took over. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lestrade.” 

Greg scoffed, eying John to see if the blond would give anything away, but he appeared completely nonplussed. “Yeah, right. Can you tell me anything?”

“A great many things, I suspect—”

“—all right, smart arse. Can you tell me anything relevant to the case? You seemed pretty sure that my lot would be pulled off; how did you get to that conclusion?”

Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together and rested his chin atop them. “The same way you did, I suspect. It was obviously a professional hit, and the killer was clearly looking for something. The house was too clean for it to have been selected at the last minute, so it must have been prepared ahead of time. There was no evidence that she was taken there against her will, so it must, therefore, follow that the killer prepared the location in advance and arranged to meet her there. The only properties that had a direct line of sight on the house were empty, so the killer could be reasonably assured that their activities would not be observed. Eviscerations are uncommon in this country, and the way her intestines had been pulled from the body and cut open strongly suggests that the killer was looking for something and knew exactly where to find it. The level of planning and preparation that went into the hit suggests that it was professional. From my brief analysis of her facial features and body dimensions, she was a British woman of comfortable means. A professional hit carried out against a British woman on UK soil; I arrived at MI5 involvement within seconds.”

“Brilliant!” John exclaimed, drawing Greg’s attention momentarily. 

“Bollocks,” Greg said, turning back to Sherlock. “More like that case you took from Mycroft involved one of his spies nicking something small enough to be swallowed. You tracked her down and Mycroft or one of his minions set up the meeting to get whatever she stole back in any way necessary. You recognised her as soon as you saw her and contacted Mycroft to have him call us off.”

Something of a smirk lingered about Sherlock’s lips. “If that’s what you chose to believe, Detective Inspector. I suppose we’ll never know what happened. Not terribly good about sharing the outcomes of investigations, the secret services.”

“Right, great. Thanks for that,” Greg snapped, running a frustrated hand through his hair. 

“I can’t believe you, Sherlock,” John said, looking somewhat aghast. “I need a coffee.” He stood up and marched out of the office, apparently angry on Greg’s behalf. Either that or he'd managed to forget just how callous Sherlock could be. Again. 

As soon as the door closed behind John Sherlock sprang from his chair and crossed the small office to perch on the edge of Greg’s desk. “You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m bloody angry! We’ve wasted God knows how many man hours investigating a case that will never go anywhere!” Greg pushed away from his desk harshly, the wheels of the cheap desk chair protesting loudly at such ill use. He paced the office, though it did little settle his tempter. “What was the point? MI5 set up a hit to deal with one of their spies. They knew how she got whatever she nicked out of the building and that it hadn’t already been handed to whoever she nicked it for, so it must have still been inside her, hence the disembowelment,” he said, waving an arm vaguely in front of his torso. 

“Correct, but you must know that I can't give you any more details,” Sherlock said, eyes fixed intently upon Greg’s face. “Are you aware that you’re very attractive when you’re angry?” he asked, apropos of nothing. 

It took a moment for Greg to register what the other man had said, but when he did it was enough to stop his pacing and diffuse some of his anger. “Shut up; that technique won’t work on me,” he said, stalking back to his desk and re-taking the chair. “Can you at least tell me why they didn’t clear it up after they’d finished, instead of letting us throw good money after bad?”

Sherlock’s eye roll spoke volumes. “The neighbours might have been ignorant of unusual activity at the house but would hardly have missed a clean-up crew going in and a body going out.”

“Right; they do the deed and leave us to clean it up when someone finally notices the smell. Always the fucking same with spooks,” Greg said angrily. 

“Indeed.”

“I need you and John to fill out these,” Greg said, pulling two forms out of the file organiser on his desk. “Just covers what you were doing on the crime scene and stuff.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been on a crime scene since these were brought in,” Sherlock replied amusedly, leaning into Greg’s personal space to take the forms, and the scent of his expensive aftershave was bliss after the stink of the crime scene. “You really are very attractive when you’re angry.” 

Sherlock’s lips brushed against Greg’s ear as he spoke, and Greg found himself leaning into his partner’s warmth, despite his best efforts to keep some distance between them. “Oh, yeah? 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, mouth tantalisingly close. “What time are you finishing today?”

“After the de-brief. Should be about five,” Greg replied, doing his damnedest to stop himself from leaning in for a kiss. 

John’s return curtailed Sherlock’s reply. The doctor stood framed in the doorway, a cup holder containing two paper takeaway cups in one hand, and a lone cup in the other. “Not interrupting anything am I?” he asked as he entered the office, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Course not,” Greg replied, voice rough, settling back into his chair to put some distance between him and Sherlock. He cleared his throat and shuffled some of the papers on his desk. “Just gave Sherlock to paperwork I need you two to fill in. Nothing you’ve not done before.”

John looked far too amused for Greg’s liking as he placed the single cup on Greg’s desk. “Americano with milk and two sugars.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Greg flipped the lid off the coffee, relishing the smell of a decent coffee after being stuck with the staffroom swill. He looked at Sherlock, who was still perched on the edge of his desk. “The small meeting room at the end of the corridor should be free if you want to get those out of the way. I’ll be in a meeting when you’re done so leave them on my desk.”

Sherlock held Greg’s gaze and the older man fancied that he could see a flush lingering about the sharp cheekbones and slight dilation of his pupils. “Certainly, Lestrade,” he replied professionally, moving carefully off the desk. Unable to help himself, Greg let his line of sight drop to the other man’s crotch and was gratified to see that his already-snug trousers appeared to be somewhat strained. 

John unsubtly cleared his throat and Greg thought that he looked far too pleased with the situation. “You sure you two don’t want a minute alone?” 

Sherlock ignored his friend and picked up his coat as he crossed the office, draping it over his right arm and letting the length of it hang strategically in front of him. “See you later, Lestrade,” he said, sweeping out of the small office leaving John to collect the paperwork.

“It’s all going well, then? With you and Himself, I mean,” the blond said as he picked the forms up from Greg’s desk. 

“Fine, fine,” Greg replied, hoping that John would drop it, and stood from his chair. “I’ve got to get to this meeting. You know where the staffroom is if you need a drink when you’ve finished that one; don’t think it’ll take you that long though, considering how quickly we were pulled out.”

“Good luck with that.” He stopped at the door and turned back with a smirk that Greg knew boded ill. “You might want to consider carrying a folder in front of you, if you know what I mean,” the doctor said with a wink and left the office. 

***

The meeting with his boss was finished by four-thirty, and Greg decided to skip out early. He had the time in to cover the half hour and there was little he could do on the case until the reports from his team were in. 

He called in to his office to collect his coat and found that Sherlock’s and John’s completed paperwork was waiting for him on top of his keyboard. It was the note stuck to his computer screen, however, that got his attention. ‘My flat when you are finished’ was scrawled in Sherlock’s distinctive hand, and Greg felt a curl of arousal at the thought of the evening ahead. 

He tossed the note into the bin, for he certainly did not want one of his team to discover it, and headed out, keeping his head down and moving quickly so as not to attract unwanted attention. He checked his phone before setting off to make sure that Sherlock hadn’t changed his mind and, with a sinking sensation, saw that there was a text from the other man. He opened the message, expecting to read that something had come up to have Sherlock out for the evening, and instead found a message that set his pulse racing.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I want you to fuck me tonight. 

“Fuck,” he said to the empty car as his mind was flooded with images of Sherlock naked and spread across his bed. 

The drive to Baker Street seemed to take an age, and Greg was convinced that the traffic lights were in a conspiracy against him. He was sitting in a queue at a traffic light ten minutes from Baker Street when another message arrived. 

**Sherlock Holmes:** If you don’t get here soon I will do it myself. 

The lights changed before he could reply, and Greg found himself finishing the drive to Sherlock’s with a hard on. “Get a grip,” he told himself as he parked. Despite the self-admonishment, arousal curled in his gut as Greg locked the car and crossed the road towards 221b. He let himself into the house and took the stairs to the first floor two at a time, shedding his coat as he went. 

“Sherlock?” he called upon finding the living room empty. 

“Bedroom!” Sherlock called back, and despite his deep voice being muffled by the door Greg fancied that there was a breathy quality to it. 

He ditched his coat on the sofa, toed off his shoes beside the door, and made for Sherlock’s bedroom. The scene he walked in on took his breath; Sherlock was on his back, stark bollock naked, knees bent and feet flat atop the mattress, with three fingers buried in his arse. He lifted his head from the pillow, hair a riot of mussed dark curls, and pinned Greg with a heated stare. “Finally,” he said, voice strained. 

Greg crossed the room in three long strides and sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that he could trail his cold fingertips down Sherlock’s chest. The other man gasped at his touch, the breathy sound going straight to Greg’s groin. “You’re stunning like this,” he told his partner, trailing his fingers back up the other man’s chest to pinch his left nipple. 

“Why are you still dressed?” Sherlock demanded, simultaneously attempting to thrust his fingers deeper and press his chest into Greg’s hand. 

Not having a decent answer, Greg stood from the bed as quickly as his aroused state would safely permit and removed his tie, allowing it to fall to the floor. It was quickly followed by his shirt and belt, and his slacks and pants pooled around his feet.

“Better,” Sherlock said, and Greg was sure he could feel the heat of his gaze upon his back as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his socks.

Once free of the last of his clothes, Greg turned to face the younger man. “What do you want?” he asked as his right hand wandered the pale expanse of Sherlock’s flat abdomen. 

He recognised the look Sherlock favoured him with as the one reserved for idiots of the highest order. “Do you really need me to answer that?” he asked, the hand occupied with fingering himself stilling for a moment. 

Greg saw the muscles in his arm tense momentarily before his eyes fluttered shut and a breathy whine escaped. “That the spot?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied, and when he opened his eyes Greg could see that the pupils were blown wide with arousal. He gave in to the urge and leant in for a kiss, which started out filthy and quickly became more so. 

After several long moments Greg pulled back enough to be able to trail a series of kisses down the column of the other man’s throat. “How do you want to do this?” he asked, for this particular act was something they had yet to do together, and he had no idea how Sherlock liked it.

“I rather thought like this,” Sherlock said and tugged on Greg’s arm with his free hand. 

Taking the hint, Greg repositioned himself so that he was on his knees between Sherlock’s spread legs, and then leant forward over his slender body, hands taking his weight on either side of the other man’s face. His hard cock was bobbing between them, and he could feel pre-come welling at the tip. “How long have you been preparing yourself?” he asked, feeling his cock throb at the memory of his partner waiting for him with his fingers buried in his own arse. 

Sherlock grunted, digging his feet into the mattress so as to be able to lift himself of the bed and get a better angle. “Long enough that you’re likely to fall in if you don’t get a move on.”

Greg pressed his lips against the tender spot on the right side of Sherlock’s neck and sucked gently. “Cheeky fucker.”

“I was rather hoping that you would be the fucker, but if you’d rather not—”

The kiss that Greg used to silence Sherlock quickly turned messy, more a smearing of mouths than anything else. His right hand groped fruitlessly around the mattress beside them until he was forced to admit defeat and break the kiss. “Where’s the lube?” 

“Under your pillow,” Sherlock answered, and fastened his mouth to Greg’s left clavicle. 

Greg fished the tube out and moved until he was balanced on his knees between Sherlock’s legs. Working the cap off the tube almost took more brain power than his highly aroused state would permit him to use, but he won the battle after a frustratingly long moment and covered the fingers of his right hand with lube.

“You do know that I’ve already done that,” Sherlock grouched as Greg pulled his still-thrusting hand away from his hole and replaced it with his own. 

Pressing in quickly with two fingers, Greg used his free hand to caress Sherlock’s abdomen, relishing the way his touch caused the other man to whimper. “Yeah, and you’ll let me do this if you want me to fuck you.”

Sherlock thrust back against Greg’s hand, bodily asking for more, and Greg gladly gave it. He crooked his fingers just so, quickly finding Sherlock’s prostate and massaging the gland, causing the other man to arch from the bed with a whine. “Like that, do you?” he asked roughly, withdrawing his fingers briefly before pressing in with three. 

“Get the fuck on with it,” Sherlock demanded, voice tight with need. 

Greg removed his fingers from Sherlock’s loosened hole. “Condom?” he asked upon not seeing one on the bed. 

Looking up at Greg from under his eyelashes, Sherlock nodded at the bedside cabinet. “In there.”

Condom retrieved and rolled on, Greg gave his sheathed erection a couple of firm strokes with his lube-covered hand. As he lowered himself back down, bracing his weight on one arm, Sherlock lifted himself slightly from the mattress and wrapped one long leg around Greg’s waist, allowing Greg to line his cock up. 

Greg pressed in slowly until Sherlock’s loosened and slick hole gave way and the head of his cock slid smoothly into the tight heat of the younger man’s body. He looked down at Sherlock and found him with his head thrown back and eyes closed tight, hair framing his face messily. “Alright?” he asked, using every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep his hips still. 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, and Greg was gratified to see his pupils were dilated. Between his glazed eyes, messy hair, flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips he looked like debauchery personified. “Hmm, yes,” the brunet replied huskily, moving his hips in such a way that more of Greg’s length was taken into his body. “Move, please.”

The ‘please’ undid Greg and he set up a steady rhythm, and soon they were both panting with exertion and covered in a light sheen of sweat. The bed creaked with their movements, and Greg spared a thought to be glad that John had moved out, for there was no way that the rhythmic thumping of the headboard against the wall could be mistaken for anything but a vigorous fucking. 

Beneath him, Sherlock was pushing into the mattress with his left foot, using it as leverage to meet Greg’s thrusts and a steady stream of breathy noises was escaping him, adding to the filthy soundtrack of flesh slapping into flesh. Greg looked down the length of his body, almost entranced by the sight of his own member disappearing into his partner. He stilled for a moment, ignoring Sherlock’s impatient snarl, and carefully drizzled more lube onto his shaft, managing to get almost as much on the bed as on his cock. “Better,” Greg said breathlessly, and picked up his pace.

Feeling his orgasm approaching, Greg shifted slightly so that he could comfortably reach Sherlock’s red, leaking erection, and took it firmly in hand, stroking in time with his thrusts. The slight change in position apparently allowed his cock to hit Sherlock’s prostate, for the younger man moaned throatily and thrust back harder, moving between fucking himself on Greg’s cock and thrusting his own into the tight circle of Greg’s fist. Concentrating on holding his position and stroking Sherlock off was enough to keep his own orgasm at bay until Sherlock keened, his arse muscles contracting around Greg’s cock as he came in pulses across Greg’s hand and his own abdomen. At that point, with Sherlock’s arse clenching rhythmically around his cock, Greg’s willpower did not stand a chance and his own orgasm overtook him. 

The rush of endorphins faded slowly, and Greg found himself sprawled atop Sherlock, his face pressed into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Marshalling his remaining energy, he pushed himself up from Sherlock’s body, making sure to secure the edge of the condom as he withdrew from the other man’s body. Sherlock made a noise of discomfited discontent and Greg pressed a tender kiss to his lips in recompense.

An indeterminate length of time passed before the sex-induced haze cleared enough that Greg could think clearly. “That was unexpected.”

Sherlock rolled languidly onto his side, head supported on his hand. “You’re…inspiring when you’re angry,” he replied, as though that explained everything. 

“Well, as long as you don’t think you need to piss me off next time you fancy a good fucking. Come on, let’s get cleaned up before we stick to the sheets.” 

After the heat of the bedroom, the bathroom held a definite chill. Greg quickly disposed of the condom and freshened up, ignoring the uncomfortable ache in his back. A quick glance in the mirror revealed that Sherlock, the sod, had managed to leave a large, red mark that would undoubtedly bruise on his collar bone. 

Greg turned on the younger man, who'd entered the bathroom behind him, and pointed at the lovebite. “Was that entirely necessary? Let’s hope I don’t have to shower at work for the next week, or my team are going to have me married off to some vampire.”

Sherlock smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself, and shooed Greg out of the room.

Greg returned to the bedroom and re-made the bed. He had just got the duvet on right when he heard the toilet flush and moments later the younger man brushed past him to get to the bed. 

“Are you staying?"

Greg stepped into his boxers and straightened up. “Do you want me to? I’m on call so my phone might go off at stupid o’clock,” he warned, sitting on the edge of the bed to put his socks back on. 

“Your company isn’t entirely unbearable,” Sherlock replied, but the smile lurking about his lips was warm. “However, I doubt I’ll be up for any further…activities, despite the earliness of the hour.”

Shuffling back on the bed so that his bare back was supported by two of Sherlock’s pillows, Greg combed his fingers through the other man’s tangled curls. “At my age, you’d be disappointed if you were up for it. It’s too early for bed; you mind if I watch some TV?”

Sherlock pressed his head into Greg’s hand with a contented noise. “I have bruising patterns to analyse, so do whatever you will.”

After several more minutes lounging around in the comfortable bed, Greg levered himself up. “If I don’t move now it’ll be morning before I get up again.”

The living room was positively frigid after the heat of the bedroom, so Greg went into the kitchen and turned the heating on. Deciding that a cup of tea was in order, he set the kettle to boil. “Want a cuppa, Sherlock?” he called through to his partner, who could still be heard moving around the bedroom. 

“Yes,” the younger man said, emerging from the corridor that led to his bedroom, bare legs poking out from the bottom of his dark blue dressing gown. 

Greg watched as he crossed the living room, picked his laptop up from his desk, and sat down carefully. He felt a flash of concern at seeing the careful way the younger man took his seat.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock said, attention apparently riveted on his computer. “Owing to the nature of the act, yes I am slightly sore. No, it's not problematic, and no I don't need you to do anything except bring me a cup of tea.”

“Right,” Greg said, turning his attention to making tea as the kettle clicked off. He carried Sherlock’s tea over and stroked a hand through the younger man’s hair. “You sure the TV won’t bother you?”

“Positive.”

Greg quickly found a documentary about World War One on BBC Four, and settled in to watch the last half of it. It was interesting enough to keep his attention, despite the odd muttering about various scientists’ levels of competence from Sherlock. 

That program ended and the next one, a documentary on urban beekeeping, was announced. Greg reached for the remote to change channel when Sherlock suddenly stood. “No, leave it,” he said, crossing the room in three quick strides. “Bees are fascinating.”

Greg look at the younger man, surprised, as he settled beside him on the sofa. “Didn’t know you were into nature.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said intelligently as Greg resumed combing through his hair, fingernails scraping slightly against his scalp. “I don’t care for it in general, but bees are magnificent creatures.” 

They were half way into the program, Sherlock the very picture of fascination, when Greg’s work mobile started ringing. He got up with a curse and pulled the damned thing out of his pocket. “DI Lestrade,” he answered, hoping that he did not sound as annoyed by the interruption as he was; after the pointless hours spent on the case that morning, the last thing Greg wanted was to be called out at night, too.

“Lestrade, dead bloke found in the lav at Kings Cross underground station. Looks like an OD but we still need a DI out there,” came the voice of Sergeant White, one of the better youngsters on the force. 

Greg ran a hand through his hair, annoyance welling in his chest. The time he got to spend with Sherlock, especially when the other man was mellow enough for sitting around watching documentaries, was precious. “I’m on my way. Tell whoever is covering the scene to expect me, and get a forensics team out there.”

He terminated the call, stuffed the phone back in his pocket, and went back to the bedroom to put his shirt back on. When he returned to the living room, Sherlock was sitting exactly where he had left him, apparently still enthralled by the bees. “I don’t think Mrs Hudson would be best thrilled to find a beehive on her roof, you know.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh and stood, crossing the distance between them quickly, pressing a tender kiss to Greg’s lips. “Come back here when you’re done.”

Greg opened the door, but stopped just short of crossing the threshold. “Sure I won’t disturb your beauty sleep?” he asked, only half joking. 

“Idiot,” Sherlock replied, voice belying his amusement. “Now, piss off,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, sitting back down and returning his attention to the TV.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Greg replied, closing the door on Sherlock’s amused smirk and heading back out to work. For all that he was not thrilled to have been called in, the disappointment was tempered by the thought that Sherlock wanted him to go back when he was finished. With a spring in his step he crossed the road to his car, eyes flicking up to the front window of 221b as he opened the door. Warmth curled in his gut when he caught sight of Sherlock’s silhouette moving away from the window, and it was with a smile that he pulled out into the night.


End file.
